


New Chicago

by speakingwosound (sev313)



Series: New Chicago [1]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M, dystopian au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-01
Updated: 2014-09-01
Packaged: 2018-02-13 04:56:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2137779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sev313/pseuds/speakingwosound
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You don’t have a Dave Toews problem.” Duncs looks at him, pointedly. “You have a Jonathan Toews problem.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	New Chicago

**Author's Note:**

  * For [enlisant](https://archiveofourown.org/users/enlisant/gifts).



> Written for the [2014 Apocalyptothon Fic Exchange](http://apocalyptothon.livejournal.com/), for this prompt: "As a side effect of some kind of biological warfare, humans are loosing their ability to reproduce. Each generation, only a small fraction of couples are able to get pregnant. Current global infrastructure, based on a self-perpetuating population, begins to collapse. Your heroes, who might have been professional hockey players in another lifetime, are just trying to survive in a brutal, technologically-regressive world."
> 
> This fic should really consist of about 30K more words, but due to the short duration of this challenge, it doesn't. I have, however, fallen in love with this verse, and will probably write in it again. I hope you enjoy this!

Pat breathes heavily as he comes down from his orgasm. The light in the room is bright, sterile, and he throws his arm heavily over his eyes, breathing wetly into his elbow as he regains feeling in his knees, his hips, his neck.

“Ah, oh, sorry, I-”

The door slams against the wall and Pat looks up to see someone standing there in a white lab coat, his eyes trained on the floor, clipboard clasped in front of his legs. He’s cute; tall, dark, muscles taut and straining against his too-tight pants. Pat’s dick gives a valiant twitch.

“Um.” Pat leverages himself into a sitting position, capping off the specimen cup and zipping himself back into his pants, even though he’s still half-hard. “Hi.”

He holds out his hand and Jon stares at it. Right, some people don’t like shaking hands after they’ve come. Don’t like the smell of it, or something.

“Right, sorry, that’s, um, gross, right?” He wipes his hand on his jeans. “You’re new?”

“Yeah.” Jon shakes his head, and Pat can, quite literally, see him will himself to answer. “Doctor Jonathan Toews. I was told to, ah, bring you these?” He holds up a couple of magazines.

Pat reaches for them, smiling as he flips through the fraying pages of 1920s pin-up girls. “You really are new, huh?”

“Hazing?”

“Hazing.” Pat closes the magazines, holding them back. “I bring my own reading material.” Thin, badly-processed pamphlets from the underground Mattachine Society, already safely tucked back away in his back pocket.

“I see that.” He holds out his hand and Pat stares at it. Jon snaps his fingers. “Specimen cup.”

“Oh, right.” Pat hands it over. “I’ve been pretty low the last couple months, so-”

Jon flips through his clipboard, marking a few things on the cup. “You have a fairly high fertility number.”

Pat shrugs. “Medium. Mom had five kids, so, it should probably be higher, but- I leave mysteries like that to the big boys.”

“Like me.”

“You’re a big boy, huh?” Pat trains his eyes between Jon’s legs, where his pants pull and catch over strong thighs. “Kinda full of yourself. For your first day.”

“I’m a fertility specialist.” Jon puts down the clipboard. “Experimental scientist, really. Doctor’s just an as-needed thing.”

“Huh. Egghead.”

Jon shrugs. “Was that meant to sting? Because I’ve heard worse on the elementary school playground.”

“Ouch.” Pat jumps off the examination table, pulling on his jacket. “Next month?”

“Same time, same place.”

“I know the drill.” Pat rolls his eyes. “Not my first go-around, either, Doctor Toes.”

“Toews.”

Pat shrugs, making sure to hit Jon’s shoulder as he slips past him and out the door.

***

“What are we talking about?” Pat drops his tray to the table and squeezes onto the bench between Seabs and Sharpy.

“Nothing.” Sharpy bites off half a roll and talks through it. “Just, the fight you missed while you were jacking off in the medical wing.”

“Ahh.” Pat blows on the lunch stew. It’s pretty decent today. “You get in it with Lundqvist over hair products again?” He looks up at Sharpy over his eyelashes.

Sharpy pushes against his shoulder, and Pat spills stew onto his pants. “Asshole,” they say, at the same time as Seabs answers the first question, ignoring them both, “It was some new kid. Tore or Tow or Toews?”

Pat freezes. The spot of hot stew burns against his thigh. “Jonathan?”

“No, ah,” Seabs scrunches his nose, “Dave, I think.”

“Huh. I met a Toews, too. New doctor, real can-name-every-element-of-the-Periodic-Table type. Dave must be his brother.”

“Well, the brother is much more a stab-first, think-later kinda guy.”

“My type.”

“Best part?” Sharpy finishes his roll by dunking it in the stew and then stuffing the whole thing in to his mouth. Pat grimaces at him.

Seabs grimaces, too, but finishes for him, “Dave’s bunking with us.”

“Great,” Pat says, drawing it out. _Just great_.

***

Pat recognizes the voice from halfway down the hallway.

“So, they, uh, treating you well here?”

“Jon-”

“I know, I know, protective brother, you don’t need me, etc, etc.”

“It’s not-” There’s a sigh of frustration. Pat sympathizes with it. “I’ve got a good gig here, and I can take care of myself.”

“Got the black-eye to prove it.”

“Damn right.”

“Look, I know Old Chicago isn’t Winnipeg, but-”

“You didn’t tell me you’re from Winter-peg,” Pat interrupts, as he makes it to his room and throws himself on his bunk. He folds his arms, resting his head on his hands and making sure his shirt rides up, just a little. “The pale skin, the chilly attitude. It all makes a lot more sense now.”

“Who are you?” Dave – he must be Dave, he looks just like Jon, except much cooler and with a few years removed – asks.

Jon, for his part, glowers. “What are _you_ doing here?”

Pat holds a hand to his chest. “Me? This, genius, is my bunk.”

“Great.” Jon glowers even harder. Pat, honestly, didn’t know so much emotion could go into one, sustained, expression.

“This is the guy you told me about? With the-” Dave makes a rude, jerk-off gesture.

Jon blushes. Pat grins. He’s been talking about Pat. That’s more than a little interesting.

“Yep,” Pat agrees, for him, cupping his mouth towards Dave but not bothering to lower his voice. “Dr. Toews walked in a bit early this morning. Good thing I was already done; don’t know if I could have finished with his ugly mug staring me down.”

Dave chokes out a laugh/eww-that’s-my-brother sound. It’s a pretty impressive noise.

“I’m gonna like you.” Pat stares pointedly at Dave, at the way his back muscles pull as he finishes making the bed. He’s not as tall as his brother and he has to stretch a bit to reach the top bunk. Pat, silently, thanks Sharpy for insisting on taking the bottom bed.

Jon makes a put-upon noise, and slaps his brother, awkwardly, on the shoulder. “I’m gonna leave you to, uh, get acquainted.” He throws the word, like it’s made out of cow dung. It’s a bit harsher than he deserves, Pat thinks. “I just came to see how you were settling in, and-”

“ – and I’m fine.”

“Good.”

“Good.”

“I’ll, just, tell mom and dad, then.”

“You do that.”

Jon squeezes Dave’s shoulder, glares at Pat one last time, and is gone. Pat lets out a breath he must have been holding deep in his diaphragm.

“Ignore him.” Dave finishes with his sheets and hops up to sit, cross-legged, on his mattress, looking down at Pat. “He’s a little nervous around new people, but he’s a good guy. Eventually.”

“Sure.” Pat agrees. “For an egghead.”

Dave laughs. Pat was already pretty sure that Dave was the better Toews, but this laugh is the clincher.

***

In his efforts to induct Dave into Hawk Group – the coolest unit of NHL Corporation security – Pat kind of forgets that the kid’s still a little raw. He’s only 16, and he spent the bulk of those years in the frozen tundra of Canada, where even global warming doesn’t dare to tread.

“Canada has global warming,” Duncs says, when Pat comes to visit him a couple weeks after the Toews family arrives in Old Chicago. Duncs pulls out a book, pages worn and fragile-looking, and opens it to a colored map of North America. “And, see? Winnipeg isn’t all that much further North than Chicago.”

Pat looks at the map for a long time, pretty sure that it’s lying to him, before he finally settles on, “Well, they still have moose and stuff, right? Armies don’t want to deal with shit like that.”

Duncs closes the book, filing it back, carefully, in the small library at the back of his classroom. “It’s not that armies don’t like Winnipeg, it’s that they really like Chicago. That’s what we get for being NHL Corp headquarters.”

“Invasions, bombs, biological weaponry.” Pat ticks them off on his fingers, and then reaches into his pocket and pulls out an apple. It’s big, crunchy, red, just the way Duncs likes them, and he holds it out. “Also, the best supplies.”

“For-?” Duncs points at himself and Pat laughs, dropping the apple into Duncs’ hand. He stares at it reverently. “I haven’t seen an apple in – what? – three months?”

Pat shrugs. “D brought a shipment in this morning. I got there first thing and made sure to snag one for you.”

“Thank you.” Duncs looks sincere, none of their normal jovial bravado between them. 

Pat shifts uncomfortably. “It’s not a big deal. Anything for my resident history buff cum-counselor.”

“Right.” Duncs grabs onto it, giving Pat a grateful half-smile. “You’re here about a problem?”

“My Dave Toews problem, yep.”

“You don’t have a Dave Toews problem.” Duncs looks at him, pointedly. “You have a Jonathan Toews problem.”

“Ugh.” Pat sighs, dropping his head to the desk. It’s a little small for him, built for middle schoolers, and it digs into his chest uncomfortably. “Why do people keep saying that?”

“Now,” Duncs sits on top of the desk next to him, still carefully cradling the apple in his palms, “that is a question worth thinking about.”

“You are the worst counselor on base. Whoever gave you a license was a fraud.”

“I don’t have a license.”

“Now you tell me.”

Down the hallway, there’s the sound of a horde of small feet and Duncs grins, sliding off his chair and clapping Pat on the shoulder. “I do, however, have a teaching license, and a job.”

A group of students enter, about twenty of them, between the ages of ten and twelve. Duncs smiles at them indulgently when they catch sight of Pat – their favorite of Duncs’ friends – and start, loudly and all at once, relaying their recess escapades. 

“There was a man, he was kind of wobbling a lot, and then-”

“Eww, no, Charlie, don’t say it. It’s gross.”

Pat winks at the kids. “Gross, huh?”

“Yeah.” Charlie’s eyes grow wide. “And then he threw up. It went everywhere and smelled awful. ‘s why Ms. Erica sent us in early.”

“It’s,” Duncs corrects, automatically.

Charlie frowns. “It’s why Ms. Erica sent us in early.”

Pat makes a face, but doesn’t say anything. It’s not his place, he’s not the teacher, and, really, it’s not that he disagrees with NHL Corp policy, except, well, he disagrees with NHL Corp policy.

With only about 1000 children under the age of sixteen in the Chicago area, the Corporation is extremely cautious with them. And, Pat can’t really blame them, even if New Chicago is so much smaller than Old Chicago. It shrank, progressively, through the years after the nuclear bombs, and, now, Old Chicago isn’t much more than a shell of bombed-out and burned-down buildings. The town, itself, moved West about a decade ago, when the government finally fell and the NHL Corporation rose to take its place. 

Even with its small size, though, the 1000 children are drastically smaller than it was even in Pat’s generation and, everyday, fertility rates are shrinking. 

So, NHL Corp set up headquarters in the well-stocked, easily-defendable, and, most importantly, still-standing Chicago Stadium. Pat can understand why the Tent City that rose up outside its walls seems dangerous, elusive, destructive to NHL Corp officials. Tent City, housing the civilian remnants of Old Chicago, has the same problems every city has – drinking, gambling, gallivanting at all hours of the night, and, Pat’s favorite, a homosexual underground that the Corporation can’t ever manage to snub out – and that terrifies the Corporation.

At recess, though, the children are allowed to play on a small, fenced-in playground that borders Tent City. So, they can see, but not touch. If Pat was a teenager, growing up today, he would certainly have been unable to resist the temptation to sneak out and see the City for himself.

“That is certainly gross,” Pat agrees with Charlie, who grins at him.

Duncs rolls his eyes, gripping Pat’s shoulder and shoving him towards the door. “I have a room full of kids with real problems to deal with. Class, say good bye to Mr. Kane.”

“Goodbye Mr. Kane,” they chant and Pat grins as he allows Duncs to close the door on his face. 

***

Pat loves working for NHL Corp security. Or, well, he loves getting to work with his hands everyday, loves the continuous activity, loves bunking with the boys and chatting with Old Chicago’s citizens. He doesn’t, particularly, like the whole shooting-and-knives thing, but, ehh, can’t be picky at the end of the world.

His favorite – absolute favorite – part of his job, however, is integrating rookies into Hawks group because, “face it, Hawks group is the best. Hands down. No competition.”

Dave’s face is open, flushed with hooch and youth and the sense of belonging that still, four years on, affects Pat when he’s not watching. “I’m glad I was assigned here.”

“Should be.” Sharpy wraps an arm around Dave’s shoulders. “Could have been assigned to the Red Wings or the Canucks and that, that would have been a tragedy.”

“A tragedy,” Pat repeats, nodding his head seriously.

Dave’s eyes widen and Pat is reminded that Dave’s fingers still shake during target practice and that, more nights than not, Dave’s pillow fails to muffle his tears. Pat doesn’t know how to deal with that, with the way his chest aches as if Pat has some sort of stake in Dave’s well being, something more than being a Hawks Group rookie. 

Whatever, Pat’s always taken care of the rookies. Mostly, with a lot of alcohol and tough love. He pushes his half-full glass in Dave’s direction and waves for another round. Leafs Tavern is busy on a Wednesday night.

It works like a charm, every time.

Dave’s on his third glass, eyes a little fuzzy, his body lilting towards Sharpy’s shoulder, when he finally settles into himself. He’s smiling widely, arms gesturing wildly, as he regales them with stories of Winter-peg. 

Which is, of course, when Jon appears to ruin all of Pat’s hard work.

“Dave?” Jon is frowning. Jon is always frowning. Pat’s not even sure what he’d do with a non-frowning Jon.

Dave looks up, grin widening. “Jonny! Join us.” He motions to the empty seat next to Pat, knocking over his glass in the process. “Oops.”

Jon raises an eyebrow, stopping behind the empty chair, but not deeming to sit down. Superior asshole.

Pat ignores the way Jon’s shirt rides up when he gestures to Dave, baring a slip of skin above his jeans directly at Pat’s eye level.

“How much have you had?”

Dave shrugs. Pat forces his eyes from Jon’s skin long enough to come to Dave’s rescue. “What are you doing here?”

“Meeting my brother for a drink. Or, I was supposed to.” Jon eyes Pat and, if the crinkles at the sides of his eyes are anything to go by, finds him wanting. “What are you doing here?”

Pat holds up a half-empty glass. “Yeah, my bad. He’s a little-” Pat looks at Dave, fondly. The rookie is pressed along Sharpy’s side, his forehead on Sharpy’s shoulder, and Pat’s pretty sure that he fell asleep about the time Jon arrived.

“I see that.” Jon’s still frowning and, seriously, how does he keep one expression for that long? “He’s seventeen,” Jon says, as if Pat might not know that yet.

“I know.” Pat does, in fact, know that. More to the point, “that’s why we’re here. Initiation, you know?”

Jon certainly does not know, or doesn’t care. Whatever, it’s possible – probable, even – that Pat’s more than a little drunk, too, and he can’t get himself to care about Jon-fucking-Toews and his stupid frown.

“I think he’s had enough initiation.” Jon’s voice curls around the word disdainfully. “I’m going to take him home.”

Pat sighs, but he gets up to take Dave’s other side. Jon frowns at him.

“You don’t have to- I’m fine-”

Dave sways against Jon’s side and Pat doesn’t wait for Jon to capitulate before he slides his shoulders under Dave’s arm and takes half his weight. Dave is alcohol-heavy and loose-limbed, and it definitely takes both of them to get Dave through Tent City.

The lights in the Stadium are bright and crisp, and Dave blinks into the brightness as they near their bunks. Pat can sympathize.

Pat rests Dave against the wall, so that he can open their door, and Dave reaches out to grasp Jon’s upper arm. “Jonny.” Dave’s whole face lightens, the corners of his smile twisting, as if he had forgotten that Jon was there. “Jonny, my favorite brother, you should have come drinking with us. We missed you.”

Jon’s face does something strange. Pat doesn’t bother trying to make sense of it. “You hate drinking with me.”

“True.” Dave shrugs. It throws him off balance, and Pat steadies him, hand steady on his hip. He ignores the way Jon’s glaring at them. “But, Kaner missed you.”

“I did not,” Pat says, an automatic reaction, as he finally gets the door open and pushes Dave inside. Jon follows them more slowly, still frowning in that strange, uncomfortable way. 

“I’m sure he didn’t.” And, what? Maybe Pat should have had a little less to drink, because nothing about Jon is making sense at the moment. “He seems to like your company just fine.”

Against Pat’s side, Dave sways and, right, he’s had more than a few too many drinks and Pat’s supposed to be putting him to bed. Team bonding, and all that. “I’m just gonna-” Pat motions to Dave, and Jon sighs, stepping forward and taking Dave’s free arm.

Together, they roll him into his top bunk. As Pat’s standing on the ladder, pulling his blankets around his chin, he snakes his wrist out to grab Jon’s. “I like it here. Thank- thank you, for bringing me.”

“No problem.” Jon’s face softens, his fingers gentle as they run through Dave’s hair, and then Dave lets out a snore, loud and alcohol-induced and the room is filled with it.

Pat laughs, shaking his head, and the room is a little fuzzy around the edges as he hops down from the ladder. Pat’s head is full and warm and the floor is tilted, just a little, just enough for Pat to stumble, reach out, wrap his fingers around the wrist Jon offers him.

“Thanks.” Pat looks up and, wow, Jon’s eyes are dark, his pupil’s wide and deep and Pat has no idea how he’s missed that. “And, sorry, about Dave, but-” Pat shrugs. “Hawks Group is the best. He needs to be initiated into that shit.”

Jon frowns, as if he wants to say something, probably something scathing about the Corp’s macho culture or something equally egghead-y and annoying. But then he swallows, shakes his head, his voice low. “He’s doing okay? You know, fitting in?”

“Yeah.” Pat nods. The room is still spinning; he’s still holding Jon’s wrist. “Yeah, he’s good. A little green, but, we all were, right?”

Jon shrugs.

“I was,” Pat amends because, seriously, Jon is such an asshole. Pat, on the other hand, doesn’t mind admitting his faults, it’s not like he isn’t patently aware of each and every one of them.

Jon’s looking at him, his eyes still impossibly dark, his cheekbones a faint pink, his lips a rusty red and slightly parted. Pat has the most ridiculous urge to kiss him, in the spot just below his collar, where his neck meets his collarbone and his skin is tanned and taught. 

“I was never that naïve,” Jon says, his voice even lower, a little worn, as if, maybe, he’s given this a lot of thought. Which is strange because, well, nothing about this conversation has been that _serious_ , not serious like the way Jon’s looking at him.

But, then, Jon quirks his mouth into a smirk, mouth turning up at the corners, smug and superior. And, thank god, any thought of kissing him rushes away, to be replaced by a wonderful image of Pat’s fist hitting the corner of Jon’s jaw.

“You should probably sleep this off. I don’t want you booting all over my lab in the morning.”

Pat feels much more comfortable here, hating Jon. It makes sense. Pat gets it.

He slips out from under Jon’s body, letting go of his wrist, and throwing a grin over his shoulder as he crosses his arms to pull his shirt over his head. “Better go. Wouldn’t want you missing any beauty sleep, I know how much you need it.”

“Fuck off.”

Pat smirks and, yeah, he can give as good as he gets. “My room.” And then he adds, just to watch the way Jon reacts. “You should come with us next time. Loosen up a bit.”

Jon snorts. “Right.”

“Wouldn’t kill you.” He reaches for the button on his pants, feeling hot and constrained, and kicks them off. Jon stares at his boxers and, huh, that’s an interesting look on his face. Pat smirks. “Fun is good for the soul. Didn’t your mother ever tell you that?”

“My mother doesn’t like clichés.” Jon is still staring at him.

“Now I know where you get it from. She doesn’t sound like much fun, either.”

“Fuck off.”

“You said that already.”

Jon ignores him. “Also, I’ll have you know, I’m tons of fun. I could fun you under the table.”

That’s just- absolutely ridiculous, and Pat folds over, laughing so hard he has to steady himself against his knees. “You sure about that, genius?”

“Invite me, next time. I’ll prove it.” Competitive asshole. Jon’s face does something weird around the eyes, something, maybe, a little soft, a little fond, but then he shakes his head. “I’m going now.”

He leaves without a backwards glance.

Pat falls back onto his bunk and sighs. He’s way too drunk to sort through the confusion of that conversation.

***

Pat’s still a little bit hazy when he shows up at the fertility clinic the next morning, his vision a little blurred around the edges and his skin feeling too tight for his body.

Jon, unfortunately, looks entirely comfortable when he walks in, notebook in hand, collar popped and professional. “Still drunk?” He asks, as a greeting.

“Still hating fun?” 

Jon fixes him with a piercing glare and Pat has the ridiculous desire to put more clothes on. “I told you, I never hated fun.”

“Until I get proof, I’m not buying it.”

Pat watches Jon keep himself from rolling his eyes. “Do you need-” He holds up the magazines from last time. The ones filled with girls in pin-striped jackets and fish tights.

Pat shakes his head, patting his back pocket. By now, Jon has to be more than aware of where Pat’s inclinations lie. Even if Pat will never outright tell him, not in New Chicago, directly under Commissioner Bettman’s nose. Pat doesn’t actually have a death wish.

“I’ll just, ahh, leave you to it, then?”

Pat nods, accepting the specimen cup Jon holds out for him. “See you in 30 minutes.”

Jon raises an eyebrow.

“20,” Pat concedes.

Jon’s eyebrow doesn’t move.

Pat sighs. “Whatever, 10, but it’ll take forever if you keep glaring at me like that.” Which is a complete lie. Pat could probably get off in, like, three minutes, just from Jon staring at him with those eyes and that severe, raised eyebrow and- Jesus, Pat needs to stop it. 

He reaches for the specimen cup.

***

“Ever played hockey?” Pat asks, because this might not be the Chicago everyone thought it would be in the 1920s, but it’s still Chicago. And they don’t have steel to waste on skates, but they have wooden sticks, a ball, a sheet of ice, and snow-bank-boards.

Dave rolls his eyes, the way he does when he thinks Pat is being particularly condescending. Pat likes to think he’s just taking on the older brother role in this relationship. He has the sneaking suspicion that Dave would call it the Dad role. 

“I’m from Winnipeg.”

“Right, so, I take that as a yes? You any good?”

Dave shrugs. “I’m alright. Jonny, though, Jonny’s brilliant.”

Pat kind of doubts that. It’s pretty hard to play hockey and stay that uptight.

Pat should really stop underestimating Jonny Toews.

“What is that? 3?” Jon asks, smirking as he crowds into Pat’s space after his third goal of the game, stick knocking against Pat’s.

Pat nods, then, “you’re good,” because, fuck you, Pat knows how to compliment when it’s deserved. And, Jesus, does Jon deserve it. He’s like a hockey god. Or something. A hockey-playing-genius. If he wasn’t so boring, Pat would be jealous.

Pat’s pretty good at lying to himself, these days.

“I am.” Jon agrees. “So are you.”

That does something to Pat, a twist in his gut that has nothing to do with hockey. He glances around, catching Sharpy, and nods at him. “Switch.”

Sharpy rolls his eyes. “I don’t appreciate being a pawn in your totally obvious attempt at flirting.”

He does, however, change teams, and Pat settles at Jon’s wing. And, Pat’s good, always has been, his hands much more suited for a stick than a gun, short frame good for dodging opponents, and legs meant to run down the wing; with Jon, though, Pat’s more than good. He doesn’t have to look to know where Jon is, doesn’t have to call before Jon’s passes catch his stick, doesn’t have to tell Jon to stand in front of the net to catch his rebounds.

It’s unfair, really, to all the other players on the pitch.

Long before Pat’s ready to call it quits, Sharpy drops onto the grass, pulling Duncs down with him and letting out a loud huff. “I surrender.”

“That’s no fun,” Pat whines, at the same time as Jon says, “Quitters are losers.”

Sharpy, though, just shrugs. “Fine, call me a loser. I’ll wear it well, at the Tavern, with alcohol in my hand.” 

Hooch is second best to hockey, Pat guesses, so he sighs, but says, “You’re buying the first round.”

“You wound me, Peeks. You really do.”

Sharpy does buy the first round. To Pat’s surprise, Jon gets the second, and then Pat’s buying shots and he kind of loses track of how much he’s had. Across the table, Jon’s laughing at Seabs, head thrown back, throat long and strong. Pat’s staring.

“You know,” Dave says, next to him, voice low and only a little slurred. “My brother’s a good guy. A little over-protective-“

“Kind of an asshole-”

“Well, yeah,” Dave says, like it’s obvious, “but-”

Pat glances over, catches Jon watching him, the slight flush on his cheeks as he glances away. “Yeah, 'but,'” Pat agrees. The bar feels hazy, a little warm around the edges, Dave’s breath on his neck too wet and raspy, and he pushes his chair back, focusing on his knees to keep himself steady. “I’m just gonna- air-”

It’s humid outside, but it’s quieter, dark with only slivers of lantern light stretching into the alleyway between Leafs Tavern and the seamstress shop next door. Pat leans against the side of the building, ignoring the rough slivers of wood at his back, and takes long, measured breaths.

“You okay?”

Jon’s fingers are warm on the skin of his forearm, and Pat startles his eyes open. “I’m fine.” Jon looks concerned, eyes narrowed the way they are when he’s concentrating on science-y things, and Pat tacks on the nickname, “genius,” without thinking about it.

Jon’s face softens and Pat really wishes that didn’t do something for him.

“Good. I- Dave said you didn’t look so good.”

“Just needed a break,” Pat says, truthfully, but then Jon’s fingers are gone. Pat looks up to see him pulling away, his shoulders hunching inwards, left foot already a step back, and he adds, quickly, “not from you.”

Jon freezes and it’s too dark to see his expression. It’s very possible that Pat’s read this whole thing wrong and, fuck, his sisters are always saying that he can be dense, but, really, this has to be the top.

“Not you specifically, just, less people, cause it was hot in there and I’m still a little overheated from the game and I know, just-”

Jon shakes his head, taking a step forward again, into the light, and Pat can see the ruthful little tilt of his mouth as he reaches out, tugging at the curl around Pat’s ear. “You’re so frustratingly optimistic.”

That- Huh, Pat doesn’t really know what to say to that. He’s not, not really, but, this world, it kind of sucks and, the way Pat figures it, the only thing to make it better is just to make his own little corner of it not suck, the best way he knows how. He doesn’t say that.

He shrugs. “What is there to be depressed about?”

Jon looks at him, eyes dark and intense, that little smile still in place even as he spreads his arms to encompass all of Tent City. “This. Everything. Anti-gay laws, Civil War, corporate rule- fuck, Kaner, so much. It’s all so much.”

That makes so much sense, coming from Jon, and Pat gets it, gets Jon, suddenly, clearly. Pat empathizes for him, shouldering all of that. Pat feels responsible for his parents, for the safety of Tent City, sure, but Jon’s taken on the _entire world_ and that must be exhausting. Pat doesn’t know how he does it, or, well, at least Pat knows, now, why Jon is an asshole so much of the time. If Pat was shouldering all that, he’d be an asshole too.

Good thing he doesn’t, then.

“That isn’t- you can’t change all that.”

“I can try.”

And, well, that’s true, and Pat laughs. “I hate to break it to you, genius, but you’re a closet optimist, too.” 

He doesn’t see Jon leaning forward until his lips are on Pat’s, stopping his ramble with a kiss that is anything but slow and gentle. Jon’s lips are chapped, rough against Pat’s, pushing, pushing, until Pat’s brain kicks into gear and he wraps his fingers in Jon’s shirt, pulling him closer.

“Finally,” Jon murmurs into Pat as Pat turns his head, mouth meeting Jon’s. It’s been a while since he’s been kissed, a long while since he’s been kissed like this, but Pat remembers.

He parts his lips, reaching out to taste the corner of Jon’s mouth. He tastes like alcohol and sweat, bitter and wet and Pat pushes forward, looking for more. Their chests are pressed together from shoulder to hip, still damp from the game, and Pat flattens on of his palms to trace the pattern of Jon’s muscles under the thin cloth. He’s strong, big, demanding, and Pat lets him. Opens his mouth, urges Jon forward, spreading his knees and making room for Jon’s thigh between them.

Jon’s hard, the length of him pressing into the inside of Pat’s thigh. Pat presses down, catching Jon between his legs, thrusting gently, rhythmically. Jon groans, loud, less inhibited than Pat would have ever guessed, hands flying to Pat’s hips and gripping, him, hard. His tongue begs entrance to Pat’s mouth, and Pat grants it, taking Jon in, offering himself, opening himself, tasting Jon on his teeth and the roof of his mouth.

“Kaner, Kaner,” Jon chants, and Pat grins into his mouth as he reaches a hand down, pressing against Jon’s erection and groaning, himself, when he feels him already wet, leaking against his pants and Pat’s fingers.

“Jesus, Jon, you’re so hot.” Pat presses a kiss to Jon’s jaw, open-mouthed and wet. “For me.”

Jon buries his head in Pat’s shoulder. He doesn’t deny it.

Pat wraps his fingers around Jon through his pants, setting a hard, fast rhythm that he matches with thrusts of his hips against Jon’s thigh, making sure that their dicks catch on the up motion. Jon is breathing hard, reaching out blindly to lick at the skin of Pat’s collarbone, pressing frantic, uncoordinated kisses everywhere he can reach.

“Can you come like this?” Pat asks, dropping his voice and slipping his free hand under Jon’s t-shirt, pressing against the hot skin of Jon’s lower back. “I want you to. You’re always so controlled, genius, but, Jesus, you could, couldn’t you?”

Jon’s breath catches, and he nods against Pat’s shoulder. Pat feels it in the drag of Jon’s lips against his skin.

“This is so dangerous. In an alley, where anyone could see, anyone could catch us, turn us in-” Jon’s whole body shudders and Pat grins, pulling Jon’s face up to look at him. He’s beautiful, eyes blown, cheeks flushed, hair twisted on his forehead. “Should have known you’d _like_ the danger.”

“Fuck, Pat.” Jon surges forward, kissing Pat breathless and he shutters in his hand. Pat works him through it, pressing their hips together and pulling at the head of Jon’s dick with slow, steady strokes until Jon grunts and pulls his hips away.

Pat’s fingers are sticky with Jon’s orgasm, even through his pants, but he slips his hand back under Jon’s shirt anyway. He presses on Jon’s back, pushing him forward, thrusting against Jon’s knee, desperate for friction, pressure, anything to take the edge off.

Jon, thankfully, figures out what he’s doing, tightening his thigh between Pat’s legs and pushing up, into Pat. His fingers tighten on Pat’s hips, helping him set a rhythm, and Pat’s already gone, leaking and wet, moaning into Jon’s shirt.

Jon presses his lips into Pat’s hair, right above his hair, at the same time as he reaches into Pat’s pants and wraps his fist around Pat’s dick. It’s so skin, warm skin and rough fingers, and, Jesus, Jon knows it. Pat can hear the smirk in his voice as he whispers, “come,” and it’s not a command Pat can ignore. 

“Told you I was fun.”

Jon’s still smirking, his hand, warm and covered in come, is still wrapped around Pat’s dick, and Pat falls forward, burying his forehead in Jon’s shoulder and huffing out a laugh.

“Ehh, jury’s still out.”

“Hmm.” Jon’s hand squeezes Pat’s softening dick, just on this side of painful, and Pat shivers. “I’ll have to try harder next time. If you can keep up, that is.”

“It’s not a competition,” Pat lies. He pulls back, just far enough to threat his fingers through Jon’s hair.

“Sure.” Jon smirks. “You’ll have no problem conceding when I win then.”

“Yeah, so not gonna happen.” 

He pulls at Jon’s hair, pulling Jon down so that he can slot their mouths together. Jon comes willingly.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! If you wanna chat about hockey or dystopian future or anything else, please comment here or find me on [tumblr](http://stainyourhands.tumblr.com)!


End file.
